Come To Your Senses
by l-dhenson
Summary: Complete. In the days after Dia de los Muertos, Sands learns a few things. Slash.
1. Part I

Title: Come to Your Senses

Pairing: Sands/El

Rating: R, mostly for language

Disclaimer: Everybody herein belongs to Robert Rodriguez.

Author's Notes: Writer's block finally overcome, hooray. First fic in this fandom. Yes, this is slash, although it doesn't start out that way. Primarily an experiment in style and themes.

The story has been completed; there will be five parts. I can't post WIP's, because something I write in part IV will inevitably cause me to go back and change something in part II, and so on. I will be posting the remaining chapters as I finish editing them.

Feedback greatly appreciated.

I.

He couldn't get the smell of blood out of his lungs.

It stayed with him, no matter how deeply or shallowly he inhaled, that thick clotting smell that sat at the very back of his throat. Sometimes, when the door opened, when the windows were open, he could hear and feel a light breeze, a swirl of fresher air. But try as he might, he couldn't catch it, couldn't breathe it in.

He'd tried breathing through his mouth instead, but that only dried him from the inside out, filled him with more dust than the atmosphere around him. Sucking in air past his clenched teeth only made that process happen a little slower.

It was that Mexico sun, that fucking gleaming Mexico postcard sun. It had baked and caked the drying blood right into his skin. Right into his pores—all that blood and assorted ocular fluids he'd never given much attention to in the past because they'd up to now unobtrusively stayed where they were supposed to and done their jobs—right down into the core of him. Except this blood had been spilled by hands like Barillo's, hands like Ajedrez's (also, come to think of it, Barillo's), and that was no way for tainted essentials to be put back in.

Oh yes; the sun of Mexico had done him in on Dia de los Muertos.

He'd wiped at his nose, at his face, his hair, had insisted that his blanket and mattress and especially pillow were soaked in the foul syrupy liquid. Had been told repeatedly, until he'd eventually been ignored more often than not, that there was no blood running, that there was only a little dried blood where his eyes had been, that he was not choking on it. At times, he believed those words.

At other times, he ran his hands (surreptitiously if he thought he wasn't alone, which wasn't often; otherwise, frantically, or actually just efficiently) over the linens, searching for crusted dampness that he never found.

After some while, he learned to pick up on other smells as well. Bile and pus, the sharp antiseptic bite of alcohol (the medical sort, unfortunately, that went with wads of cotton and soiled rags) and ointment, the flat plasticky smell of freshly-unrolled bandages, feverish sweat. Those he associated with the visits of a hazily-deduced doctor on what he had concluded were probably the first two days, or at least the first two days he'd been conscious and free enough of agony to care. They'd been in a different motel then, but live in one, live in 'em all. There was the heavy chalky artificially-flowery smell of cheap motel detergent on the even cheaper motel sheets, which didn't entirely mask the slight mustiness of the mattress underneath. Pushing that "extra rinse" button would do you wonders, folks, or do you know how much you could reduce your annual expenditure just by not measuring your All-Temperature Crap with a wheelbarrow?

But these were all overlaid with the stench of blood. Swallowing down food (stop bringing it) was nearly out of the question.

At times it retreated a little, when he could smell other things, because somehow those things came with their own sort of quietness (accompanied by metal chiming, though usually at a distance). And that quietness let him clear his head, just a bit. Leather. Powder. Solvent. Gun oil. 

But only at times.

There was no getting away from it. Maybe the floor was coated in it, although there were no telltale noises of tackiness when someone walked across it, unless it had soaked into the threadbare rug (how could anyone sleep on it?). Maybe the walls were splashed with it, like spraypaint, like obscene graffiti. It was the only way he could leave his mark on this country, now. _Sands was here, once upon a time. In Mexico._

At least the doctor had stopped showing up. Which was both good and bad, because Sands had promised himself that on the next visit, the quack was getting blown away.

Maybe this was all fever-induced wish-induced delirium and he hadn't ever gotten off the streets. Maybe he was still lying in the palatial square, bullets still lodged in him, high noon sun blasting everything to unseen brilliance, still straining to hear the sound of a bicycle bell that would never come. Maybe he was at this moment staggering through some anonymous back alley, leaking himself out as he went. Exchanging dust for blood, more and less of one and the other with every passing throb of his veins; not a fair trade, but who said you ever scored a good bargain in this scalding untended catbox of a country—

"Stop," he was told, not impatiently, and not soothingly. "Breathe, now."

He stilled his hands from roaming the fraying (dry) sheets (when had he started?) but he could not persuade his lungs to expand.

Just as well, anyway. It was _his_ choice to breathe or not breathe, fuck you very much.

Then his lungs abruptly decided to work again and he caught himself before it went too far, sucking in only a tiny gasp of air.

A metallic jingle, coming closer. "Again."

He didn't bother to shake his head. Just gave the other man the finger.

His chest was starting to burn. He gritted his teeth, wanting the heavy coppery bittersweetness hovering in his throat to just go away, but he had no air left with which to expel it, and he sure as hell didn't want to taste it going down.

Fingers touched his face, startling him into another breath. Reflexively, his stomach tried to recoil its way up through him and he thought about just letting it happen, for variety's sake—

Except.

Except that it wasn't quite as bad. The viscous odor of blood had been cut through by something thin and sharp and bracing, like a blade slicing a noose. It awoke dim recognition in the back of his mind, dim because it wasn't supposed to be here, and then he had it.

Lime.

Ah yes, lime and death, two great tastes that just didn't go better together.

The fingers left his cheek. Involuntarily, before he could think, he reached for them. Stopped himself just short of actually grabbing them. "Wait—"

They did not return, but they did not seem to withdraw any further; he could still feel their heat, a mere inch away. He let his hands drop back to the bed. He pulled in a second careful breath, very slowly, just in case his nose had decided now was a good time for some amusement.

There: lime again. (One more, and he'd hit jackpot.) The musky, unmistakable smell of tequila. Tortilla, cooked meat, tobacco. Smoke. Leather and warm skin.

He swallowed without difficulty, called up a smirk. "You mean you started the drinking without me?"

"I was bored," El said.

He drew another breath, letting his lungs fill completely this time.

Jackpot.


	2. Part II

II.

The door closed, muffling the receding sounds of jangling chains and one spur that rattled, rattled, rattled in counterpoint.

He counted to forty-seven, then counted to forty-seven again and listened hard before bracing his palms against the sagging mattress and pushing himself up. He automatically put up a hand to keep the gauzy bandage around his eyes from slipping, but it had been snugly bound and showed all indications of staying compliantly in place. Just as automatically, his other hand slid beneath his decidedly un-fluffy pillow (something else to suggest to the management) to emerge with one of his guns.

His head only pounded moderately now when he sat up, and it was tolerable. Liberal application of painkillers had helped quite a bit with that (though there were still times he was surprised to find there weren't _actually_ barbed hooks digging into his face). Holding his breath was no longer a necessity, hadn't been for a whole two days, some kind of record there, but the one good thing he'd found out of doing it so often was that it made it easier to listen for returning mariachis. 

Which shouldn't be happening too soon. He'd been sure to make his shopping requests quite specific. El had given him a long silence and muttered something unfriendly in Spanish, but El had gone.

Standing, he reached out immediately for the rickety bedside table, keeping his fingers along the chipped edge so as not to knock over the pill bottles and plastic cups. He didn't usually get out on this side, since the rug was here, but following the wall on the other side meant taking the long way around.

Following the table and then following the rug when he ran out of table, he made his way towards the far end of the small room. There was the slightly larger (wasn't saying much) table against the wall, the lone chair, and there behind it (_bump_ against his boot), where he'd heard the other man set it down more than once, was what he sought.

He tucked his gun into his waistband and knelt to pull out the guitar case. He popped the catches, then hesitated, hands on the scratched textured leather (hadn't he read a story once, something about a woman who safeguarded her treasures by keeping a live asp coiled in her jewelry box?—but that was, well, stupid. And anyway, El would have scorpions). There was only the sound of street traffic and the whistle of wind through the slightly propped-open window, so flipping up the lid was easy. Taking hold of the guitar at base and neck, he lifted it out and set it on the seat of the chair.

It was heavier than he'd anticipated, even knowing what was inside. But that was good. A weapon should have some heft, so that it sat just _so_ in your grip, so that you knew it was really there.

He touched the body of the guitar. The varnish was glossy and even. It was cool and not sticky with dust, as everything else in the room appeared to be (everything within reaching distance, that is). He skated his hands over the entire face. No nicks, no lumps in the finish. Three—no, four—faint thin indentations here and there, but they were not unexpected; this was a _working_ instrument, after all. You probably wouldn't even notice them, just by looking.

Of course, he was ahead of "just looking" these days. Far ahead.

It was a well-tended thing, as it should be. After all, it was undoubtedly mostly to blame for why El was still walking around in one piece after all these years. Any self-respecting gunfighter (and he generously conceded El probably qualified) knew to look after his own weapons, if he had any inclination towards living another day. What he was discovering now by touch was only proof. Attentive hands had cared for this guitar, had wiped it down after battle and diligently patched up the combat scratches, had cushioned it against falls and blows and a hundred accidental everyday knocks. 

The top felt like a sheet of room-temperature glass (he was tempted to say like _ice_, but _here?_). He pressed one palm to the belly of it just below the bridge, very lightly, and wondered what it would look like if it _were_ made of glass, unbroken and offering no handholds, no latches, a featureless indifferent window. _Let me in._

Oh, who was he kidding? This thing had a latch. He found the edge, there (no cracks in the glue seams either) and, just like the rumors all said, with a little pressure eased up the top. After an initial _snick_, it rose silently and effortlessly on what had to be well-oiled hinges. 

Now, this next part was the part the rumors weren't clear on. Probably because there were no survivors to tell the stories.

The familiar scent of gun oil floated out. Of powder, too. Well, at least it didn't sound like anything was alive in there.

He reached in, sliding his fingers cautiously down the width of the rib, and encountered the smooth nap of velvet an instant before touching the business end of a cartridge. The metal was cold and matte, the bullet narrow-tipped, its case long. He found the stiff strip of leather that held it in place against the side, next to all its brethren. Rifle loads, for the guitar itself, no doubt. Belini had mentioned it, gleefully passed along the speculation, the first time (the penultimate time) they'd met. Sands knew about the mariachi's handguns, since those rarely left the mariachi, but he had yet to see the rifle in action.

Not that he would ever _see_ the rifle in action, fuck you all and your little doctor, too. _Especially_ your little doctor, actually, and with several repeat performances if time permitted.

He unclenched his hands and took a breath (see, he had it down cold now) and ran them along the curve of the side, discovering more little line-ups of cartridges. There were a few spent casings scattered among them, their empty necks leaving faint circles on the pads of his fingers. The inside of the back was mostly an uninterrupted stretch of velvet with some empty straps, though he easily found the shallow depressions in the fabric that showed heavy objects had rested there. He traced the outlines, the ridges and dips. _Intaglio of Two Guns, In Velvet, Avec Guitar._

He continued exploring. When he reached the inside of the top, he jerked his hand back almost before he felt the sting. 

"Shit!" He had what seemed to be a shallow cut on the side of his index finger. Okay, so maybe El didn't need scorpions, if the guy digging through his weapons cache was doing it in the dark.

He considered a moment, then located one of the empty casings and pulled it from its loop. He probed the inside of the lid with it, feeling it rasp as he dragged it against the nap of the fabric until it stopped, hearing metal clink against metal.

Aha. He followed the outline as best he could around more leather strips, but he didn't have to go far to figure out the shape of the knife. The thin blade was broad and tapering and symmetrical, the hilt shaped like a short cross, the entire thing about six or seven inches long. There were several identical ones strapped beside it. _Oh, right, Belini again._

_Carolina._

He bared his teeth in a soundless snarl, only just remembering to return the casing to its loop before snapping closed the face of the guitar. 

Shit. A polished wooden shell, a velvet lining, a lid that swung open. This wasn't a guitar.

It was a fucking coffin.

He wanted to drop the thing back into its leather case and make sure the locks were good and tight. Or else just drop the thing and listen to it smash merrily on the floorboards. His next step then would be to throw himself right out the window, because there was no way El would let him out of this room alive.

He grabbed for the neck, and let go immediately at the tiny, muted sound that resulted. For a long moment, he did not move.

Then he reached forward, and set his fingers on the steel strings again. He did not pluck them.

He counted them, one two three four five six, thinner to thicker as he pulled his hand back towards himself. Touched the wood between them, found the frets and, if he concentrated, the small rounds of mother-of-pearl that labeled them, set flush with the surface. 

How hard could he push on the strings, without sounding them? He pressed them with the tips of his fingers (they pressed back), swept his way slowly down the neck, feeling the spaces between them widen ever so slightly as he continued. You would need calluses to play properly. El knew these strings, could play them properly, _did_ play them properly. He was only brushing his way along them in silent echo.

At the edge of the abyss that was the soundhole, he hesitated.

Then he reversed direction, back towards the headstock. He found the metal tuning pegs, and counted those too, just because he could.

He fitted his fingers around the flat head of one peg. If he turned it one way, and kept turning, the string would eventually begin to sag, like the business assets of a whore who didn't know she was past her prime. And if he thought that was too dull, and turned it the other way, it would simply snap. Robin Hood would have to get a whole new bowstring.

He had a sudden urge to turn all six pegs just a little, a different randomly-chosen amount for each one. Not enough to be visible, because sometimes subtlety was key. Just enough to make El sit up and take notice, and maybe frown in puzzlement over why his beloved instrument was so mysteriously oddly out of tune. Just enough to say, _Sands was here._

The sudden thud of footsteps (jangle and rattle) on the stairs brought his head up swiftly. He nudged the case lightly with his knee (he had been careful not to move it from its spot), deposited the guitar back in it, flipped the catches and scrambled back towards the bed. (If an agent stumbles slightly on the edge of a rug and no one is there to see it, did it really happen?)

The lock was turning even as he stretched himself out on the mattress. The door scraped open, then closed, and over the rustle of several plastic bags, El growled, "I found your cigarettes."

"Gee, thanks, El. You're a real pal, did I ever tell you that?"

He winced a little as he sank back onto the rock-hard pillow. He tried to look on the bright side: at least it wasn't _too_ fluffy, thus saving him the effort and the expense. Ammunition didn't just grow on trees, you know.


	3. Part III

III.

He crumpled up the empty wrapper, a hearty _crackle_ that was more satisfying than the meal it had contained, and dropped it over the side of the bed. It made a muffled landing on the rug. Beef was definitely better than pork, he'd decided. Fortunately, dinner hadn't been pork, but too bad it hadn't been beef, either. His best guess was that it had been chicken, but when it was ground up and stuck into a floury wrap and drowned in something mushy and peppery there was no way to know for sure. And he was too tired to investigate further.

"You missed," El said, from the chair.

"I missed…what?"

"The wastebasket."

He sighed. "One can only miss something if one aims for it in the first place. As a gunfighter, I should think you'd know that."

There was the _tick_ of a fingernail being flicked against a pistol that El had just finished cleaning (sounds of careful friction, aroma of solvent and oil). "As a gunfighter," El said slowly, "I know I would not miss your head from here."

He stretched lazily, forcing himself not to wince at the half-healed wounds in legs and arm. "Oh, now is that really the wisest course of action? You know you'd lose your room deposit."

The chair creaked as El rose. "I paid for a room," he said, and Sands could hear him approaching, his pace deliberate (always was), "with no cockroaches and no rats." He (three steps) stopped beside the bed. The small metal wastebasket in front of the bedside table made a low _whanng_ as it met with the toe of the mariachi's boot.

"And I expect the décor's very tasteful, too. Though of course that's only speculation on my part."

El said nothing.

"Oh, fine. Since you ask so nicely." He rolled over and reached an arm down, immediately finding the wrapper where he'd left it, and (it had come from a little to his right) pitched it accurately into the container. "There. Better?"

El returned to his seat. "Better."

He lay there, idly keeping an ear on the smooth glide of metal against metal as the mariachi reassembled his stripped gun, barrel and slide and magazine. In the vast majority of situations, Sands reflected, what made for more interesting listening was the sounds made by things falling apart. Things being deconstructed, being torn down, being pulled into their component parts. But sometimes…well, there were always exceptions. This was almost soothing.

El cleared his throat warningly, then came the sharp noise of the action being cycled several times in an unloaded gun. Sands' hand was already slipping beneath his pillow for his own weapon, and though he knew what El was doing was just standard procedure, he kept his fingers on the grip until the noises stopped.

Yep, sounded like a working firearm to him. Evidently El thought so, too, because that was definitely him slamming a clip home. Sands relaxed a little.

And then caught himself, because another man's gun being reloaded was never an occasion to be _relaxed_.

Well, fuck.

Time to go.

If the ceiling was anything worth staring at, not likely in this joint, he probably would have wanted to stare at it. He'd made this same mental catalogue countless times over the past few days, although now it was evident he hadn't been thinking about it often enough.

("Tell me…El, or The, or whatever the hell you've styled yourself…why are you here at all?"

There had been a long silence. He'd thought he wouldn't be getting an answer, in which case, _adios mariachi _to the accompaniment of a .357 to the head. He'd track him by chains or by breath or by fucking _thought_ all night if he had to.

And then, just as he was calculating how much time he'd have before gunshots brought motel employees running, "Because the boy said you were going to need the money back."

He had not asked again.)

What he had on him: Three bullet holes. He was probably sufficiently healed. Oh, not as much as he would have preferred, but such were circumstances. Those wounds twinged, but by now he could lift objects and walk and chew gum and do all sorts of things. He couldn't see worth piss, of course, but he'd gotten around once, and he could do it again, boys on clattering bicycles or no. His guns were still with him—one on the bedside table, one under his pillow, two under the mattress edges (one per side). 

No money, though. The last of what little he'd carried in his wallet had gone to the boy (he'd asked the kid to find him a taxi, and look what he brought back instead. Had he slept through training the day they taught that the Spanish words for "taxi" and "big lug of a humorless mariachi" sounded exactly the same?) and then apparently not to the boy after all and eventually to the doctor. El obviously had some cash, as evidenced by their luxurious digs and cuisine, although then again not so much, because he was sure whatever character quirks the other man had, a fetish for sleeping on rugs probably wasn't one of them. The rest of El's money had allegedly been spirited off to his village.

Newer information: There hadn't been anything useful in the mariachi's case. No spare guns, just lots of ammo he couldn't use. A rifle was handy to have, but there was no way he could drag that thing around all of Mexico without attracting fifty-seven varieties of unwanted attention. Even those who'd forgotten about El Mariachi in the intervening dormant years sure as hell knew all about him, now. And what they didn't know, they made up. 

There were the throwing knives, waiting with their blades staggered up-and-down, like fangs. But he wasn't touching those.

Under him, the bedsprings squeaked, just a little.

The opposition: All manner of drug cartels had to be salivating all over their expensive designer shirtfronts at the thought of getting their hands on him. If Barillo hadn't bought it, it would have been Barillo, for his men and for his daughter (she who'd oozed more addictive poison than any merchandise her father ever had wet dreams of dealing in; she who'd oozed her guts out through a hole so big he was sorry he hadn't stayed upright long enough to put a fist through it). But Barillo was dead dead dead, which meant that now it was everybody else. Some of them big dogs, others not so much. But even a pack of chihuahuas made a lot of racket.

The CIA had hung him out to dry. That was the one absolute certainty he had. Someone higher up the food chain had obviously decided that he, Agent Sheldon Jeffrey Sands, was expendable. That the effort to _not_ replace a compromised line was worth more than keeping him whole. An acceptable loss. They'd thrown him, when the chihuahuas hadn't even been in the picture, to the wolves. Going back to them now only meant feeding the hand that stabbed you.

And in conclusion: So. Four guns, limited ammo, no money, cartels howling at his heels and an Agency which at best thought he'd been torn to pieces and at worst were taking action to reassure themselves they'd thought right.

He had some painkillers left. That cheered him, a little. If he hoarded them carefully (not starting right now, though; he could feel headache number Some Big Number creeping in already), he could sell off whatever he didn't use. It wouldn't be fun but, he supposed, you made your own fun. The sporadic bustle of traffic that drifted up from below told him they were near a crossroads, albeit not a large one. Why, he had simply _multitudes_ of places he could go.

Whenever the next opportunity arose. Whenever he was next left alone. Day or night didn't matter much, at least not from his point of view.

The snapping of catches drew his attention. The chair creaked again as its occupant straightened up, and there was the hollow sound of the guitar being settled gently on El's leg.

By now, the ritual of tuning was familiar to Sands, as the guitar was never out of El's hands for very long. He could mentally armchair-quarterback this in his sleep. (Too sharp…still too sharp…ohh, too flat now. What? You're not going to leave it like that, you tone-deaf—oh there you go, good mariachi, have a biscuit.) Too bad he hadn't actually gotten around to de-tuning El's strings this morning—he would've liked to have seen (well, _be in the same room with_) the look on El's face.

El started playing something he didn't recognize, something slow and leisurely, with an intricate minor-key melody that glided its way down and up the scale. 

Before, he'd only given the strumming half an ear. Now that he knew what lay inside, he found himself wondering if all the hardware affected the tone. If you listened carefully enough, could you tell this was not just an instrument of music, but also an instrument of death? Maybe the cartridges chattered among themselves in their holders. Maybe the hidden rifle rumbled to itself in anticipation of its next kill. Maybe the knives, nestled in their bed of velvet, sang their own songs of loss.

And maybe he was just going fucking nuts, trapped too long in a small room with a mariachi (_shut that bloody bazouki off!_).

The strings brushed their rippling, mellow sounds over the furniture and walls. He'd touched those same strings himself earlier that day, testing their give, charting their variations, feeling their strength. But he'd left them to their silence, taken pains not to play them. That was not, he somehow felt, for him to do.

It was for El to do. El's fingers knew what they were doing, as they pulled living music from dead wood and cold steel and scattered it effortlessly around the room, like gently-released doves. He remembered, with sudden surprise at the clarity of it, how those fingers (guitar-callused, gun-callused) had also touched him. They had changed dressings, washed away blood, replaced cold compresses, pulled up blankets. Held him up, in those first pain-wracked days, to help him choke down tepid bottled water. Supported him when he almost inevitably threw it up again. Had possibly woken him, though he couldn't be entirely sure, from a screaming fever-smothered nightmare or two.

Those occasions had dwindled as he recovered. Now, there was hardly any need for that, and that was just swell by him.

Except.

El's hands coaxed harmonies and chords from the guitar, and the sound shivered through Sands because it had nowhere else to go in this confined space, and neither did he. The piece had altered a little now, the notes ringing deeper. Each one fell, heavy with longing, bass notes hovering near the floor as though they could not lift themselves free. He gritted his teeth against it, but they dragged him down with them, and it was like sinking to the bottom of the ocean. 

They murmured of all the endless nights that had been, and all the endless nights to follow. They did not sob or wail their grief; they simply continued to fill the room, liquid spheres of music brimming with time and unshed tears.

Sorrow and regret and desolation rolled over him in waves. They were not his own, and he only peripherally understood their source, but that did not matter. They weighed down his limbs, tides closing over his head. He reached for air against that undertow of awful, raw emptiness, and in the back of his mind wondered, _does he even know what he's doing? How does he survive it, or is it like being in the eye of a hurricane?_

El stroked the strings tenderly, one last time, and let the lingering notes die away.

Sands took a breath.

El put down his guitar, and said, "This is the last night."


	4. Part IV

IV.

Sands pushed himself up on his elbows, resting more of his weight on the right one. "What?"

"This is the last night. I only thought to stay because it was too early to move you, but now there is no time left."

"Gee, El, I think that's the longest sentence I've ever heard come out of your—"

There was a restless shuffle as El got to his feet. "We leave, first thing tomorrow. Three days is too long."

He heard the room's single light being clicked off (miniscule drop in temperature), and El striding past him to the window. The curtain rings rattled. Presumably the mariachi was looking out of it.

A tiny draft came through as the curtains were parted, the cooler evening air telling him it was some hours after sunset. It carried with it the smells of motor oil, a mixture of fresh (and not-so-fresh) fruit, and cooking from below. His mouth almost watered. Someone out there was having a better dinner than he'd had tonight. A cigarette might be a good idea right now; he'd had one right before his unpalatable meal, but his tongue still seemed full of ashes.

He rubbed at his forehead, trying to dispel the growing ache, or at least just hold it off long enough.

When El said _leave_, he meant…

"So. Any fuckmooks down there waving guns at our window?"

El didn't reply.

"See, I figured not, what with the general lack of the shooting and the screaming and the drama. But thanks for playing anyway."

El said, "I see no one likely."

But three days. El was right; it was high time to get out of this town, wherever the hell they were. It was only out of necessity that El had picked a town so small Sands hadn't ever heard of it and wouldn't be able to find it on a map with both hands to save his life (especially, hah, now). But it didn't mean he had to like it. (Being in the Town That Time Forgot, that is.)

He fumbled for, and found, one of the unopened water bottles on the table. The plastic was only barely lower than room temperature, but he pressed it to his brow anyway, trying to ease the pressure building behind, behind, where his eyes used to be. Fuck! This kind came up fast, like a summer storm. In its worst stages, he'd start seeing phantom flashes alongside the spikes of pain, and he'd vowed never to go through that again. And not because of the spikes.

Above the slight sloshing of the water, he heard El say, "Sands?"

"Yes? Of course I'm peachy. It's obvious."

He heard the other man approach and kneel down on the rug. "Headache, or fever?"

"Don't know," he answered sullenly.

"Move this." The bottle was nudged aside, and a broad palm (callused) placed on his forehead. Sands jerked back in irritation.

El lowered his hand, but didn't go away.

Sands shrugged carelessly. "I think it's both."

"I know it's both." Pill bottles rattled, then rattled some more, and then El hissed under his breath before getting up and moving across the room. The light switch clicked again. 

Sands smirked, suddenly feeling marginally better.

The other man returned, along with the sound of one bottle being unscrewed. "Here."

Sands held out a hand, and two matte-smooth, slightly convex rounds landed in his palm. A water bottle tapped against the fingers of his other hand, and he took it, finding it half-full (or half-empty, really) and with the top already off. He closed his fist around the pills. He'd been through this so many times already, and the thought of having to continue to dose himself throughout the near future made him feel suddenly sick. He knew exactly how the pills would feel going down. He knew exactly how dull and, well, _water-y_ the water would be. It was always the same.

"Take them," El said quietly. "We have to leave at dawn."

The headache chose that moment to stab at him again, so he did. The pills always seemed to start dissolving before he could swallow them, leaving a bitter layer on his tongue; their coating wasn't the best, so they always caught a little in the back of his throat. He gulped down more water, trying to wash it away, but it didn't seem to help all that much. He could just picture it sticking to the inside of his esophagus, chalky and persistent.

He lay back, dropping the empty bottle over the side, heard El scoop it up before it could land. "Do you need another?"

He shook his head, but only a judicious amount.

El got up once more, and as Sands waited for the pills to work their pharmaceutical magic he could hear the sink running (you had be patient with the cold tap), followed by lighter splashes hitting the basin. El came back (_flick_ of the light switch one last time on the way), and sank down again. Sands lifted a hand, and a small folded towel was laid in it, damp and blessedly cool. He settled it on his own brow, checking to make sure no water seeped from it to soak into the bandages over his face (but then, none ever had).

Silence filled the room. Sands didn't feel inclined to talk, and El…well, no newsflash there. 

The pain was burrowing into his temples. He rubbed at them, then tried not rubbing at them, but it didn't seem to make much difference. Outside, a car roared by loudly, raucous thumping bass splitting the night right through to his skull. He winced and gripped the compress a little more tightly until the vehicle had faded into the distance, but his head had apparently decided that it was a catchy beat and kept it going, thud-_thud_ thud-_thud_ thud-_thud_. 

Aw, that was no fair. "Get Happy" was a _much_ catchier tune, and had no pounding backbeat besides.

He tried lying still, then thought about rolling over, then tried shifting uncomfortably instead. If he was unlucky, he hadn't taken the medicine soon enough, and it wouldn't help much with the pain. If he was unlucky, but with still a smidgen of luck left, the pills would at the very least knock him out, and then he could be unconscious through the worst of it. He pulled up the blanket, and discarded it a moment later. There was too much heat already, barely kept in check by the compress.

He pressed one hand to his stomach. If he was _very_ unlucky, it would want to get in on the act, too, and start tying itself into the sort of creative knots only found in Boy Scout manuals.

"Is it not working?" El said, voice low, and Sands jumped. He'd nearly forgotten the man was still sitting there.

"What do you think?"

El leaned over to reach for something, and when he leaned back, it was with the distinctive _ting_ of liquid rolling in a glass bottle. The cap was worked off, filling Sands' lungs with the odor of tequila. Wait a minute. Sands was never one to get in the way of a good drink, and sure at the moment he wanted to claw at his temples until it felt so good when he stopped, but even he wasn't suicidal enough to want to mix pills and the hard stuff. 

At least, not right now.

El was leaning closer. "Let me try this. All right?"

Sands frowned. What the hell?

El's forearm brushed his shoulder, then the compress was lifted away, hot air eagerly rushing in to fill the void. There was the sound of the bottle being tilted up. "Excuse me," Sands started, "I kind of needed that—"

Wet, cool fingers touched his forehead, and his voice died away. "_Un momento_," El murmured, his words already evaporating the liquor, but Sands was not about to stop him, not while liquid relief was being stroked over his brow. Light as a spring rainfall, that hand swept comfort along his flushed skin, easing the fever, extinguishing the flames that threatened to scorch him from the inside out.

El pulled his hand away, and Sands held his breath, but then El came back, brushing a newly-moistened thumb over his temples. No eyes to open, Sands thought, too bad, because now would be a great time to close them.

"Does that help?" El asked.

"Yeah." It came out a whisper. "Yes," he said, more firmly this time.

El didn't say anything, probably nodded, but Sands didn't care. As long as he didn't suddenly decide to go away.

That bottle-tilting-up sound again, and then the compress was replaced on his forehead, almost frosty now. It helped with the pain, lessened some of the tension that crawled through the back of his head and neck. The painkillers were starting to slowly rev into gear, too. About damn time, slackers.

On the rug, he heard El put down the bottle and turn, felt the slight give of the mattress as the mariachi leaned his back against the side of the bed.

He must have drifted off, because the next thing he knew the headache had gloriously subsided and the compress had been removed again. His brow felt slightly more chilled than the rest of his face, and the heat was damped but not gone. The back of a hand laid itself against his right cheek, disappeared, and returned to anoint it with more of the alcohol, then did the same for his left. 

Before it could fully retreat, he reached out and unerringly caught the wrist.

Above him, El tensed. "Sands?"

Not giving himself time to think, he pulled El's hand back towards himself. He touched one fingertip to his lips, letting them part slightly, feeling the tequila already starting to burn. He darted his tongue over warm skin, tastebuds wakening to the strong agave flavor, the slight saltiness underneath. _Tequila with mariachi chaser._ Hell, maybe he ought to patent it.

El had gone very still.

Well, it was better than slugging him in the jaw. Sands wasn't sure he wouldn't have done that, had their positions been reversed.

But then, their positions weren't reversed, were they? And that was the whole point, because why waste time questioning the _what-ifs_ when you could be taking advantage of the _now_? And El was continuing to not-slug him, which was good enough.

He slowly licked the rest of El's (that was his right hand) fingers clean, then pressed his lips against the palm before releasing him. El withdrew his hand, but did not otherwise move.

"Well," Sands said brightly, "normally I'd be nervous at the fact that you're all speechless, but keep in mind who I'm dealing with here…"

One finger came back to touch his mouth briefly, and El sighed. "You are still feverish."

"Only a little."

Fluid sloshed in the bottle, and El's hand grazed his jaw before dipping to spread cool liquid along his throat. Sands rolled the aftertaste of tequila against the roof of his mouth and decided that he could allow it. He tipped his head back, suppressing an unexpected quiver as strong fingers caressed his collarbone. El did not seem to be _deliberately_ trying to indulge him, but El did not seem to be rushing the job, either.

El's fingertips lingered momentarily in the hollow at the base of his throat, and then Sands _did_ shiver as El lowered his head and blew gently across the dampened skin.

"Shit," he gritted out. He'd give his spare left arm to know what the hell expression El had on his face right about now.

Well, there was one quick way to find out. He grabbed the other man's shirtfront and drew him in, not abruptly, because that would be asking for a third hole in the head courtesy of a sawed-off shotgun; but firmly, and with clear intent. 

Oh, christ on all his crutches. He yanked hard, found El's mouth, and covered it with his own.

For a frozen heartbeat, it was like kissing a marble statue, a stone angel. But then the statue came alive, and El returned the pressure, lips opening in invitation. Sands did not hesitate. El tasted of tequila and Coke, of the peppery spice that had insinuated itself into their dinner (it was much more appealing in this presentation), very faintly of tobacco. No lime tonight, but then El seemed to generally take his liquor slow. 

El's palms were flat against his chest, so light Sands could barely feel him there, as though what hovered above him was a shade, another delusional phantasm. Damn him—_damn_ him, the mariachi was many things, but he was no ghost. Sands tugged sharply, his fingers twisted in lapels, and this time El became more substantial, hands warm against his ribs.

There was more to it than that, though. El tasted like a man who spent his days in sunshine, but also knew how to spend his nights in smoky bars, and who somehow possessed the ability to turn his soul into music. Like a man who knew how to take life, but had forgotten how to live it for a long, long time. But only forgotten. Or maybe that was just his sorry-ass imagination, running the fucking hell away with him.

He bit down hard on the full lower lip, suddenly desperate to leave brands in the flesh. El grunted, and the weight on Sands' chest clamped down punishingly, like a vice, threatening to cut off his air. Sands savored the dizzying sensation for a moment before letting go, tongue flicking out to run softly over the tiny marks he'd made. The crushing pressure relented enough to let him breathe again.

El broke the kiss. "Enough. You still have a fever." But his palm cupped the side of Sands' face.

Frankly, he felt exhausted and wrung out, and his body, simmering under the heat still within, was naggingly sore all over. "If you say so," he retorted.

"I did." 

El slid from his half-propped position on the bed, taking with him a warmth that had nothing to do with fever or tequila, and leaving behind a coldness that had everything to do with the utter endlessness of night.

 Sands opened his mouth, and said, "Wait. At least…" And then ran out of any words he was willing to allow get past his teeth. He made a vague gesture in the direction of the rug.

There was a pause. "Are you offering to trade?"

"Dream on, fuckmook."

"The bed is not large enough."

"Are you telling me I don't know the size of my own bed, guitar-boy?"

There was a slightly longer pause, then El said, very seriously, "If I fall off, then I have no choice but to kill you."

Sands ignored him. But he did deign to move over.


	5. Part V

V.

The next time he awoke, he figured it had to be some hours later. His fever felt like it had finally broken. The air was chilly enough now to be the dead of night, and there were absolutely no sounds of traffic or pedestrians from the street below. 

El had been right; the bed really wasn't big enough for two. But damned if Sands was going to admit it. They were wedged against each other; he was perilously close to his edge of the mattress, and to judge from El's muttered comments before he'd fallen asleep, it was the same on the other end. Sands' handgun had made the move with its owner, and now reposed beneath his side of the pillow.

El, he was willing to bet a nonexistent year's salary on, had his own firearm tucked under the other half. Hell, if they kept this up, they should get them monogrammed.

Sands slept on his back as always, because otherwise the temptation to bury his face in the bedding (result: lots and lots of pain, not recommended) was too strong. Consequently, El was sleeping on his side, pressed tightly against him. El's chest rose and fell, evenly now in slumber, against Sands' right arm; in perfect synchronicity, his breath whisked lightly over Sands' ear.

Sands tapped his fingers thoughtfully where they rested on El's arm, which in turn was wrapped around Sands' waist. He couldn't sleep, so he was thinking: what the hell would the cartels think if they burst in on them like this in the morning?

Maybe they'd be shocked; he could just hear the stunned silence, the bewildered cellphone calls to their superiors. ("I know you said the room at the end of the second floor, Boss, but…uh…") Maybe they'd just laugh themselves sick. Maybe they'd take lots of pictures.

He rubbed the fabric of El's sleeve between his fingers. They could use black-and-white film, he mused. He'd insisted on staying in black himself (and if letting El find new clothes for him hadn't been the highest expression of trust in humanity, he didn't know what was), and El, as everyone knew, was forever in white and black. El didn't have on his jacket right now, so between the both of them they'd make big, monochromatic blocks.

Only, that wasn't really fair. El's eyes, if he remembered them correctly from his first and only five minutes of staring into them, were a deep, rich brown. Coffee and molasses. They were mesmerizingly dark, but they couldn't be represented by plain black, not by a long shot. And his skin…the pasty _gringo_ was one thing, but the mariachi's skin was sun-bronzed, almost golden next to the crisp blank canvas of his shirt. You couldn't capture _that_ on crappy film.

And then those lips. A very pale shade of dusky rose, and pardon him if he sounded too much like a fucking interior decorator for saying so. He had a sudden overwhelming urge to find out if the kisses tonight had reddened them any, and stopped himself just before he could turn.

Oh, yes…the son of Mexico had really done him in.

And then, and then…he'd probably left a row of tiny bruises there. Would they show up in the morning (would anyone looking at him notice), a small violet curve under El's lower lip?

He'd caught the rumors one day, from outside the window, two old women chatting eagerly about the coup. El Mariachi, they'd said (voices hushed in reverence on the name), had been seen in the streets surrounding the palace, prowling his terrain like a lion, draped in the colors of Mexico. 

It was a laughably grandiose image (he'd have to find out if there was any truth to it—then again, he _was_ talking about a man who annihilated bars left and right) but if they were correct, why, he'd have to add a host of new paint samples to El's palette. Emerald and scarlet, copper and sky-blue and yellow. Navy and gold, too, if those murmurs about El Presidente's jacket were anything to go by.

And the guitar, of course. The one El had idly strummed in the cantina the day they'd met had been a light sandy-ash, simple and unvarnished, like a child's awkward rendition. That was not the guitar El was carrying now. Another mystery Sands intended to solve.

There were, come to think of it, a wagonload of things he didn't know about the man next to him.

He pulled his fingers away from El's sleeve. He let El's arm remain where it was, but reached his own hand under the pillow until it settled on cold metal. It meant he'd have to sleep with his left elbow extended beyond the mattress, but that was a minor inconvenience. El's left arm was trapped between their bodies, his right arm around Sands, neither hand near a gun. Advantage: Sands. 

He hoped, anyway, because the man was fast as a snake, and twice as deadly. One could never be too careful, especially with a man like El Mariachi.

He wondered what El would do if he found out.

They had to be up at first light. Rosy fingers of dawn, amber rays of new sun, and all those other overused clichés. It occurred to him that he could picture those colors now, but that one day, inevitably, he'd forget even how to imagine them. They'd leak right out of his mind, seep inexorably between his clenched hands, lost to the barren Mexico soil along with everything else. Bronze and rose and molasses-brown. And there might be nothing there to remind him.

He'd just have to see where tomorrow took them.

_—fin—_

Author's Notes: As I mentioned, this was an experiment in themes, and I hope it came off well enough. The story follows a very specific structure, the biggest aspect of which led to the title and the fact that there are five parts.

Thanks for the lovely feedback. I manage about one story a year, so this is a real encouragement.


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